


Not Guilty, Never Guilty

by GeekWithTea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Oscar Wilde Trials, Other, Panic Attacks, References to historical homophobia and its effects, Technically could be part of the Five Steps Canon but not going to be listed as such, Trigger warnings are mild but still there, You can steal the Crowley knows medicine headcanon from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22580212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekWithTea/pseuds/GeekWithTea
Summary: Crowley finds out from her young charge that Aziraphale has taken ill, and it had something to do with the news. She learns a bit about his life during her century long Victorian nap and begins dismantling Aziraphale's repressed guilt and turmoil. [Pre-relationship, 2017 Turing's Law Pardon].
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Oscar Wilde, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Brother Francis
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111





	Not Guilty, Never Guilty

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: there is some slight self-harm in a panic attack involving hair pulling. The plot also surrounds the pardoning of all queer men who were charged with homosexuality when it was illegal, so there is some reference to experience of homophobia in this.

“Nanny, do you think Brother Francis is okay?” Warlock’s young voice broke Crowley’s thoughts. It had been a pleasant thought process, gushing about how her charge wanted his nails painted the same colour as hers and how magnificent they were turning out. This seemed a lot more important. At some point, Crowley noticed Warlock had pulled out his phone.

“Brother Francis seemed upset about something, but he said he was okay.” Crowley gave a neutral blink. Not at Warlock’s assumption, but at Aziraphale’s never-ending stance that he was okay, even when he wasn’t. “He just told me he was watching a sad show. It was the news. Mom says the news is depressing but I’ve never seen her cry over it.”

If Warlock noted that his left knuckle was now freshly painted in a single, erratic jolt, he made no mind of it. “He wasn’t bawling Nanny. He just did this.” Warlock mimicked a sniff and what could only be described as a British manner, pretended to wipe two single tears with his thumb. With his best Brother Francis impression, Warlock added “Oh don’t worry, Master Warlock. I was just watching a lovely show and it made me a little emotional. Nothing wrong with a little emotion.”  
Crowley snorted. Maybe Angel should take some of his own advice.

“Anyways…Mom just texted me saying he went home sick, but he says he should be back tomorrow.”

“And…if I were to go to check on him?”

“I’ll influence her to let you go today. If…” Crowley couldn’t quite tell if Warlock was genuinely bargaining or if he had just remembered he wasn’t supposed to do anything for free; as per his proud Nanny’s advice of course.

“What does the dark master, my hellspawn command?” Crowley winked, and the wink matched her usual style more than Nanny’s, but these seemed to be the moments Warlock appreciated most.

“Paint my other thumb and index finger black. I want to be able to call people losers in a punk way.” She snorted and nodded, getting to work. If she used a miracle to make it dry faster, neither of them said anything. 

Warlock ran into the house. It was easier if he went in first, and then Crowley would get what she wanted. Worry started to build in her gut. Aziraphale was firmly British and most definitely emotionally repressed. She wasn’t much better, but at least she took the occasional depression nap and sobbing spell with the emotional support of the Golden Girls, whiskey and vanilla ice-cream. Aziraphale…well…he really seemed to do everything short of having his tear ducts surgically removed. Sure, the dam burst here and there-Crowley had seen enough red-rimmed eyed guests at his door holding a bottle of near-toxic strong liquor to share, but for someone to witness it? It was bad. For Warlock to see it when Aziraphale-for his normal dislike of children and their chaos-had taken the god-father title to heart…wasn’t good. Impulsively, Crowley used a demonic miracle to see his vitals and location. He wasn’t physically hurt and he was in the bookshop.

Mrs. Dowling looked displeased, as if she expected this was going to happen, had accepted this was going to happen but still had hoped it wouldn’t.

“Warlock told me you are sick, but I am skeptical of his diagnosis of the Bubonic plague.” Crowley couldn’t help it and laughed quietly, while giving her best ‘you tried, and I am proud of you’ glance to Warlock. The eight-year-old still had a bit more work to do on lying. “I assume you mean to check on Francis, Ms. Ashteroth?” Her glance softened. That…wasn’t good. How bad had he been that Mrs. Dowling felt any sort of sympathy for a sick employee?” Her stomach tightened in a knot. “Warlock, do you mind going inside?”  
It was a sheer miracle that when she was a woman, she happened to be a bit reserved, and was even more so as Nanny. If she had been a man today, the panic attack would have already left the station. Instead, it was buying its ticket and whistling along as it went to board the ‘Fuck-Up-Crowley’s-Day’ Express.

Warlock flashed a worried expression and walked inside, no doubt leaning by the door. He was very good at eavesdropping even if his lying needed work.

“I had to send him home today. He looked near…catatonic. I figured that if he were to become hysterical, he would prefer to do that from the comfort of his own home. I suggested that you two could go home together, but he insisted that he didn’t want to bother you with this.” Crowley’s eyes widened and she put her arms up in a placating gesture. “Don’t worry. I didn’t allow him to go home alone. I ordered my personal driver to do so, though I doubt he let Cyril stay with him. I was going to call in an hour or two.”  
Crowley still didn’t like Mrs. Dowling, but she couldn’t deny that she had been damn near heroic today.

“If I let you go today, I am willing to give you a half-day tomorrow if needed, but you are not getting tomorrow completely off unless it is a dire emergency.” Figures. She still couldn’t handle more than a day and a half with her own child.

Crowley’s phone buzzed with a message from “Hellspawn”. From the thumbnail, she could see Warlock holding onto Sister Slug with two thumbs up and a friendly smile. She’d play it before showing Aziraphale to make sure, but the kindness tickled her. Warlock was growing up to be a normal child after all.

“Thank you.” She briskly walked away but Mrs. Dowling understood that she meant no offense by it and walked back inside.

\--

The Bentley’s engine roared through the streets of London, and only the sheer power of belief convinced pedestrians that Crowley wouldn’t hit them, and the cops decided that someone going 200 in Central London was beneath them. Crowley nearly fell out of her high heels as she ran up the stairs to the bookshop.

The door was locked, and technically designed so Crowley couldn’t get in at this moment. She didn’t know it, and the Bookshop fully supported her going inside, so she walked in. She remembered how Aziraphale had confessed one night that he found Ashteroth intimidating (and potentially arousing, but she was sure that that was her own wishful interpretation), so she snapped her clothes into a casual but high fashion black turtleneck and tight, somewhat bejewelled black jeans. The heels stayed on because she had no intention of looking dour. She did however tousle her hair and add a warm but fashionable wool sweater in case of emergency hugs. Crowley wasn’t sure what Aziraphale would need, but she knew she had fantasized about receiving big woolly hugs when she was depressed. 

She grabbed a hot chocolate with some extra caramel, a touch of rye, whip cream and marshmallows. At least she could offer a present, if he was too bothered by the presence of company. Part of her brain offered that it might have been her specifically, but she threw it into the rest of the dumpster fire of her concealed thoughts.

She couldn’t find him anywhere at first, but his location was in the shop. It was only when she heard a slight intake of breath from the bedroom. Part of her blushed at the idea of walking into his bedroom, but it went into the horny compartment of the dumpster fire of her concealed thoughts.

He was staring at the wall and sitting on the floor. Catatonic was the right word. Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes bore into the wall as he tried to maintain some semblance of…something. Crowley didn’t know what else to do, but to softly wave the gift under his nose, hoping that the promise of a good drink would snap him into some form of reality.  
There was no reaction. He just kept staring through the window. His lip twitched on occasion, just to reassure Crowley that there was still someone inside the corporation, but he did little more.

“Angel?” There was a sharp intake of breath, and suddenly the curtains of the window closed so violently that the curtain rod might have fallen off if not for a miracle. The breathing became louder, and slightly erratic. Aziraphale was panicking about something. Crowley for a moment was shocked when her world went black, only to realize that she had a comforter thrown hastily over her frame. The footsteps creaked and she heard the fidgeting of keys, as if Aziraphale had some sort of plan to lock her inside. She realized with a start that the Guardian of the Eastern Gate was trying to protect her on autopilot and she immediately sprung up, holding the comforter in case it was needed.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” She couldn’t say it was the wrong thing to do, otherwise she might have been locked in his room until he snapped out of it. Instead, he froze. “Angel?” He stared at her with wide eyes and shook his head with little more than a tremor, before immediately turning his head and walking briskly down the stairs as if he hadn’t seen her.  
Whatever it was, it had something to do with being seen. Once Aziraphale made it safely down the stairs, she snapped her fingers, closing every door and window and snapped again to make sure all the curtains were blackout curtains.

“Angel, can you tell me what’s wrong now?” Crowley started gently walking down the stairs. Some of the panic had left the angel, but it was replaced with a crushing heaviness. While he had taken off most of his disguise, his boots clunked softly through the house until he intentionally collapsed into the sofa. Crowley walked just a touch faster as Aziraphale began to curl in on himself. His wings gently cocooned him, and he trembled, though wasn’t crying…just yet. Crowley remembered the cocoa and miracled it to the table. She pushed the table closer to the angel and left it right beside. 

“If you don’t want to talk…could I at least take your boots off?” She whispered gently but got no answer. “I’m going to take them off because I know how much you hate mud on the carpet. Tell or at least signal me if you don’t want me too.” Quietly and gently, she removed each boot and replaced them with their matching slipper beside the couch, watching Aziraphale’s body language the whole time. She miracled a few handkerchiefs to her pockets and used a miracle to trade the tenner into her wallet for some of the finest pastries in London, alongside a small plate of crepes that would never get cold from France.

“I got you a treat. The chocolatines have a high-grade liquored chocolate in them too…whatever that means, but considering it’s alcohol-” She snickered kindly, “I would be glad to share.” As if Aziraphale would share food beyond a small sample. The joke usually landed, but not today. She decided to throw on the TV, and both suddenly and intentionally the Sound of Music was playing.

“Ewwwww! Gross!” She overdramatically gagged and changed it to the 1948 Hamlet version that Aziraphale adored. There was no reaction beyond the quiet shivering that had manifested at the same time as his wings. She wanted to hug him, though she doubted he would like it. He tended to only accept hugs when it was socially acceptable or when he was completely plastered. Instead, she settled for draping his exposed legs in the comforter. She debated joining him under the covers, and her snake instincts won out, but she squeezed herself into the smallest corner of the couch. She wasn’t particularly fond of the movie-if she had to watch Hamlet, she preferred the 2009 one with the charming fellow who Aziraphale insisted she looked like when she presented male-but it gave her the opportunity to watch the angel.

He stayed in his cocoon and managed to get himself wrapped up tighter. “Aziraphale, you know you can tell me anything, right? I might judge you over thinking cucumber, bread and butter is a sandwich, or for other petty shit but…I promise, on my…admittedly dubious…word as a demon and good word as a friend that I won’t make fun of you.” She paused and added: “…and if cucumber sandwiches are the problem, I won’t tease.”

It had no impact, and she sighed, stretching over the couch. She wasn’t going to leave him alone, but maybe she could hear the video before showing Aziraphale what Warlock had sent.

“Angel, I’ll be right back…unless you want me to go…but I’m just grabbing my device and headphones. Warlock sent you something on my device and I want to make sure that our eight-year-old charge didn’t accidentally send something…well you can guess.”

Aziraphale’s voice was hoarse. “He…sent me something?” She immediately turned around, but he was still hidden by his wings.

Crowley debated on how much to tell him. “Well…he was a bit worried about you, thought you might have come down with a bug of some kind and wanted me to send something to lift your spirits.” She paused. “Is there anything I can do to lift your spirits?”

“I know you’re not nice…” She rolled her eyes at the hint of sarcasm, but not enough that it could be implied with her glasses on. “But you’re being awfully kind and…I’d rather…” There was a hiccup in his voice that sent her rushing back to the couch. “I’d rather…you just left me be.” It was followed by a sniffle, and Crowley was sure that he was biting down on his lip. As far as she could tell, it was the finger in the dam, and she had no intentions of letting its banks burst alone.

Her heart, as it often did, broke for him. It was a deeper break than usual, but she plastered a gentle smile. “Now now. If I were to ask for that, would you leave me be?” She sat beside him and barely resisted the urge to touch his knee. They both knew the answer to that one.

The feathered bundle stopped moving. “…Can I…be a hypocrite for just once?” Aziraphale shivered.

“Oh sure, on lots of things. But not this one. Not today. Listen, Angel. You don’t even need to tell me what’s wrong. If…you really want, I can leave the room and just…stay upstairs and monitor your health so I don’t bother you. I just…” I love you. I want to care for you. You are my everything and have been for millennia. “…just want to see you feeling better.”

“I d-don’t…deserve it.” Crowley’s eyes widened. Crowley may have been a demon, but it was one of the most bald-faced lies she had ever heard.

“Nonsense.” She scoffed but realized the bluntness might come off as invalidating. “I’m a demon. My whole job is to not give people what they ‘deserve’. And if you think you deserve garbage treatment, then I’ll elevate you.” She had half a mind to keep going, but Aziraphale was clever. He’d figure out what she’d been trying to imply for millennia if she kept going. “…Least I can do for all the good shit you’ve done for me and like…you know, the planet.” She stroked his knee with a feather light touch, and she felt him quake and moved it quickly but gently. It was her mistake if it made him uncomfortable and she would not let him be apologetic over it.

A small drip of blood splashed the comforter and Crowley stared in horror. Aziraphale had been biting his lip for a while, hadn’t he? One of Aziraphale’s hands was clenched into a fist and it slowly rested on his knee. For lack of a better idea, she grabbed on to it.

“I’m here for you Aziraphale, for bet-…ah…no matter what.” She settled onto something that didn’t sound like a marriage vow. “No matter what.” She pivoted her body towards where she imagined his face was in the nest of feathers and stared at him tenderly.

Her hand was gripped in an iron vice as Aziraphale began to shake. She fought the urge not to yelp, similar to a spouse whose hand had been grabbed during a contraction. There were a few hiccups, and Crowley held on as the storm began. Aziraphale’s body began to sway towards Crowley, as if he considered leaning towards him.

“I changed into this sweater for a reason, Aziraphale. If you need to hug or rest up against me, I’m prepared.” Later that night, her face would go red as a tomato and she’d screech into her pillow, but right now it was the words she needed. As the wings receded, the comforter replaced them, between Aziraphale’s frantic attempts to hide and Crowley gently freeing up fabric caught in the couch cushions. Slowly, Aziraphale slid down to his side where his head eventually landed on her stomach. The crying hadn’t picked up, but the hiccups were increasing slowly. She gently fished for one of the handkerchiefs and gently put it in the blanket where Aziraphale’s face would be. She accidentally brushed his wet cheek and he shuddered. “Sorry, angel.” She whispered apologetically.

“Don’t be too kind. They’ll…they’ll hurt you.” Her eyebrows rose, realizing she was about to find out at least some of what had caused this commotion and not liking the implications at all. “It won’t be for queerness…at least, that’s what they say now…but hell, heaven or earth needs little excuse, doesn’t it?” Crowley wanted to interject, especially as she felt a cold wave of anxiety that came with her fight or flight instincts. Aziraphale continued. “And here I am…just too selfish and stupid and…”

“No and no. You are not selfish, and you are definitely not stupid.” Crowley gently pet the top of his head while her voice remained firm. “It’s been 6000 years angel, and I have insurance that you gave me.”

That was most definitely the wrong thing to say. The sobs picked up and Aziraphale wheezed, getting up suddenly and curling in a defensive ball on the corner of the couch. She froze for a moment, parsing out what to do when-

“Stupid, stupid angel!” Aziraphale sobbed as he grabbed a handful of his own curls and yanked. Crowley didn’t even need a moment to react and kneeled in front of him.

“Gabriel’s not in the room, okay? There’s no stupid angels here.” She couldn’t resist the joke, hoping it would help snap Aziraphale out of it. It didn’t and she decided to lean fully into her medical training. “Can you breathe for me…? In…1…2…3 and out…1…2…3… and again.” They did it a few more times until Aziraphale slowly released his beautiful hair from his panicked grip. He was shaking tremendously, but his breathing was controlled. Despite his attempts to hide the tears, fat drops rolled down his cheeks and he groaned.

“It’s a-all my fault…” Aziraphale moaned, and Crowley could almost hear the deep, cavernous grief in Aziraphale’s soul.

“I doubt it, but if it is nothing is only ever one being’s fault.” She held both of his hands, to comfort and to keep him from reacting violently to himself.

“But I’m the only one left to blame!” Aziraphale stood up so fast that Crowley almost fell into the table but caught herself in time with her heels. No need to add that to his guilt. “They caught him, put him in prison, essentially killed him and then just go ‘oop, sorry ‘bout that.’” For a moment, Crowley swore he saw more than two eyes on Aziraphale’s corporation. Shit.

“They caught him with a man and executed him with neglect! And I couldn’t do anything! He wouldn’t even let me heal him! If this doesn’t work, I’m going to lose you too! The only two people I have cared for in this bloody world! Always taking the damn high road! Like your own death is so noble and it’ll be my fault again and-and-an-“ Aziraphale collapsed in a sobbing heap onto Crowley’s shoulder.

“Angel…what are you talking about?”

“Meningitis…holy water…it’s all the same. As if everything is a tragedy that just ends like it isn’t my fault and I didn’t cause all of it.” Aziraphale sobbed, gripping the sweater like a lifeline. “Because I’m the tragic fool accompanying the tragic lead, and can only make the bloody story worse!”

Crowley wrapped Aziraphale in a hug, and instantly splayed out her black wings and straightened up the tangled comforter so that it wouldn’t feel like a restraint.

“Angel no…life isn’t Shakespeare or anything like that. Besides, if it was I’m not…well I’m not Hamlet. I’m Macbeth. If I die tragically, I’m going down swinging surrounded by very pissed off people who are also going to go down. It’s not your fault if he got sick and didn’t want cured because he thought it was fate. It’s not your fault-!”

“But what if it is! Crowley, they arrested him because they caught him with a man! I’m a man shaped being! I saw him that night!” Aziraphale wailed, as if he wanted to make sure Crowley knew what kind of bastard he was. The kind that wasn’t worth knowing. 

After 6000 years, Crowley knew differently. “Who was the friend? Humans have gotten better at keeping records these days.”

Aziraphale grabbed the remote, almost dropping it twice with the ferocity of his shaking and changed the channel to the news clip, which was only there because he expected it to be.

“The British government has passed the Turing’s Law, which pardons every case of homosexuality that was ever charged. A famous example including not only Alan Turing who was named by the law, but Oscar Wilde, who’s infamous trial led to his death in 1900-“ Crowley immediately turned the TV off.

“Leave it to the government to try to do things for people without realizing that there are more people alive affected by the thing.” Crowley snorted, wrapping her arms tighter around Aziraphale. “Oscar Wilde, huh?” He nodded.

“Then technically, they pardoned you. No, they did more than that, they apologized to you. Quite frankly, they need to do a hell of a lot more.” 

He shook his head. “It doesn’t change what I did.”

Crowley shook her head. “That’s the thing about the, uh…tragic hero types…we’re stubborn, and at least in my case, dumb as a box of rocks.” Aziraphale clicked his teeth scoldingly but the effect was lost with the gasping and shivering. “What I’m trying to say is tragic hero types are just going to do what they want, and it’s not your fault that something happens. If anything, we need to apologize to you about causing you grief.” Aziraphale looked bitterly skeptical, and she knew that this self-loathing wouldn’t be reasoned away so easily. So, she tried another tactic.

“You don’t need my forgiveness…but if you need to hear it, I forgive you too.” 

Aziraphale stared up at her, like those Catholic glass windows with people begging to Jesus for absolution, stunned to receive it. His chest heaved and the force of his grief knocked them to the floor as he wept into her chest. She miracled a yoga mat under her back and whispered quiet affirmations and rubbed his back. Occasionally, she would pass him a new handkerchief as they got soaked. She couldn’t blame him. 117 years was a long time to grieve a friend. Most humans never lived long enough to grieve and blame themselves for that long. So, Crowley, a fellow master at extended grief, gently rubbed his golden curls, whispered sweet nothings and longed to plant a healing kiss on top. This wasn’t her time to pine, so she pushed it aside. What she did do was miracle both to the couch and let Aziraphale continue to weep. At a certain point, they reduced to hiccups and the occasional sobs and the tremors came in aftershocks.

“Aziraphale, I got you some treats earlier. Would you like some?” He seemed conflicted, glancing off at the box of miraculously fresh treats and his arms which were wrapped tightly around her waist. She chuckled and with a bit of a miracle, was able to pull a miniature croissant from the box and put it in front of his face. While it was mixed with a sob and a hiccup, he responded quietly. “Just like a baby bird.”

“I ain’t chewing it for you, if that’s what you’re asking.” She laughed with him, both secure knowing that was not what was being asked. Gently, she took the hand holding the croissant and allowed him to take a small bite. He smiled at the taste, though it was disturbed by a small hiccup and Aziraphale shifted just slightly so that his hand was up at her shoulder and able to reach treats from the table.

“So…I only get half a day off tomorrow unless you really need it.” She sighed. “I’d tell Harriet to shove it, but I don’t want to leave Warlock alone.” She blinked. “The video!” Using a miracle she grabbed her phone and turned it towards Aziraphale. “Hopefully it isn’t too off-colour but Warlock sent you something.”

He took the phone from her hand as she clicked play.

“Uhhh…hey Brother Francis. I heard you were feeling like turd…” Aziraphale paused and looked at Crowley. “Don’t look at me like that. He probably got that from that Roblox or however its pronounced site. I would have just taught him ‘shit’.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but fondly. Crowley hoped that if she had any points with God above, She’d make it possible for them to do this after the apocalypse without the weeping and terror that lead up to it. Aziraphale pressed play again. “So anyway…Sister Slug and I wanted to say we hope you feel better soon. I don’t really love and care for everyone, but you’re…” He winked in the video and showed off his newly painted thumbs. “Two thumbs up-and when I give myself six arms during the apocalypse, you’ll get all 6 thumbs.” Aziraphale laughed, but his eyes glistened. “Feel better soon, weird-in-a-cool-way sage gardener friend!” The video began to replay and Aziraphale paused it.

Crowley caught his eye and saw the wobbling of his lip. Smiling, she gave him two thumbs up of her own. “I don’t really want more thumbs, but you got mine, my weird-in-a-cool-way brilliant angel friend!” Aziraphale’s bright blue eyes filled with tears again.

“Do you have any more…?” The next sound out of him would either be a laugh, a sob or both and Crowley snapped, with a multitude of handkerchiefs gently floating from the ceiling on top of them.

“Is that enough?” Crowley giggled at the mix of happy tears and glee on her best friend’s face. Aziraphale grabbed one and dabbed at his eyes.

“Hopefully it is, my dear girl. Hopefully it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't abandoned Five Steps or The Favour (this ties in loosely to the next chapter of The Favour.) It's just the thesis life.


End file.
